In the Lectionary

This week’s Gospel proclaims a baptism of repentance and forgiveness of sins. Aren’t we looking to the arrival of Christ with hopeful anticipation, rather than weighing ourselves down with how screwed up we are?

Advent stands at odds with the tranquility our culture hopes for this time of year. The coming of the Son of Man will yank us off the hamster wheel of life.

The callousness of Pontius Pilate was legendary: if you could choose your judge, you did not want him. Jesus cannot choose.

The unnamed disciple in Mark 13:1 would have been impressed not only by the temple’s splendor, but by what it represented: God’s presence with Israel. Jesus’ reply must have astounded him.

I’m afraid for Ruth. Boaz’s words suggest either that Ruth has already been assaulted and humiliated, or that it would have been customary for a woman in her position to expect abuse.

When I read John 11 and heard Jesus thundering, “Unbind him and let him go!" I realized I had not forgiven my father.

New daughters and sons do not take the place of the lost ones. As a conclusion to the story of Job, this will not do.

If God’s response to Job in chapter 38 were meant only to shut Job up, seven verses would be sufficient. But God is only getting started here, and the exuberance of the rhetoric insists that vastly more is at stake.

As a second-generation Korean American, it is hard to identify stories from my past that can serve as reservoirs of understanding for my life now. “In you our ancestors trusted,” I could proclaim from those stories, “and you delivered them.”

The psalmist is not alone in claiming that humans are only “a little lower than God.” Can it be any wonder, then, that our faith leaves a great deal of room to disagree about our power in creation?

At this point in Mark, stumbling blocks seem a necessary point for conversation. We are good at placing them in others’ paths, and even better at setting them before ourselves.

This week’s Gospel may be the second Passion prediction, but being told that Jesus will be killed is no easier on the second hearing. Maybe the disciples don’t ask questions because they’re afraid it could be true.

James reminds us of the duplicity of language, like a matchstick dropped by singed fingers that leaves behind charred acres. The deception of language is that we believe it is innocent.

I have spent most of my Christian life in deep discomfort with Mark 7. I now read it as an early example of the priesthood of all believers.

We love to look at people and judge them on the basis of what we see. We looked at Lance Armstrong and saw a guy who beat cancer and won Tour de France titles. We saw Bill Cosby as a barrier-breaking comedian and father figure.

In our Gospel text, some of Jesus’ disciples find his teaching hard. Eating his body? Drinking his blood? I didn’t sign up for this. Couldn’t I just pray for you?

If Solomon were an older and more experienced ruler when God appears to him in his dream, I wonder if he would ask for wisdom.

We are to work honestly, work with our hands, and work so that we can share with those in need.

In this week’s reading, Bathsheba, the woman David drew dripping out of her bath and into his story, is not named.

I don’t want to identify with David, with this king who knows no limits. But why, pray God, does his arrogance feel so familiar?